Warlock Read online

  A NEW REIGN

  OF TIMELESS TERROR

  Snatched by Satan himself from the fiery stake of a Salem witch-burning, a warlock lands right in the middle of 20th-century Los Angeles. His age-old quest to bring about the reign of ultimate evil leaves a trail of blood and terror across America. Only one man can stop him, a witch hunter who has come from the past to stop the warlock and prevent the ultimate horror that will change the fate of the world.

  AVON BOOKS

  A division of

  The Hearst Corporation

  105 Madison Avenue

  New York, New York 10016

  Copyright © 1989 by Ray Garton

  Published by arrangement with the author

  ISBN: 0-380-75712-5

  All rights reserved, which includes the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever except as provided by the U.S. Copyright Law. For information address Richard Curtis Associates, Inc., 164 East 64th Street, New York, New York 10021.

  First Avon Books Printing: February 1989

  Printed in the U.S.A.

  For

  DAWN MILLHOUSE

  Many thanks to my agent Richard Curtis and my editor Michael Bradley. Thanks also to Paul Meredith, Scott Sandin, and to Mab Ashforth, who took a few minutes one day to give me a year’s worth of encouragement. Thanks to my students in Creative Writing 60 for being so patient with my absent-mindedness during the hurried writing of this book. And thank you very much to D.T. Twohy for such an enjoyable script.

  COLONY OF MASSACHUSETTS

  TOWNSHIP OF BOSTON

  Year of Our Lord

  Sixteen Hundred Ninety and One

  He was killing a rat with his eyes.

  It was no challenge, a simple rat, but it helped pass the time.

  And it gave him something to do with his pain.

  He was doubled over a long staff at the waist, suspended above the floor, thumblocks linked his thumbs to his big toes, their sharp edges biting into his flesh. He had been hanging from the pole for three days and, normally, the slightest movement would bring searing pain.

  But he felt nothing.

  He passed his pain to the rat.

  The cell was small and dark, with only one small rectangular window. Even that afforded little light in spite of the bright cloudless sky outside. The cell seemed to hold a darkness that even the sun could not penetrate.

  The air was thick with the reek of urine and excrement. The magistrates would attribute the odor to demon possession; they always did. The simple truth was that even he had excretions.

  No, if he were to be truly entered, if Hell were to open and send him a rescuer, if the pious Puritan magistrates with their waddled chins and bushy dandruff-speckled eyebrows were to see that—

  —he would not be the one to lose control of his bodily functions.

  Roaches crunched over the wet gritty floor.

  Bats hanging above him shuffled with dry, whispery sounds.

  And curled on its side in the corner was the rat. Its pink tail slapped the floor now and then; dull light glowed off its tiny fangs as its lips pulled back in agony; its small unblinking eyes were locked onto the man’s steady, icy gaze.

  And it felt his pain . . .

  They would be coming soon, the magistrates, for a few final words with him. Through the boarded-over window, he could hear the last preparations being made for his execution.

  Outside, below the tower, cats were yowling angrily. He knew they were being stuffed into a basket, cramped together carelessly, and he hoped they were biting and clawing with all their strength, shredding the flesh of the cat-tender.

  Nearby, there would be a pyre of wood awaiting the flames.

  And rising above it all, casting a long shadow in the bright sunlight, would be the gallows, the noose perhaps shifting slightly in a faint breeze.

  He knew what awaited him below because he had seen it all before. He had seen it—

  —and escaped it.

  It amused him and he smiled as the rat shrieked in the corner, clawing at itself miserably, its front paws raking through gray matted fur, body twisting in pain.

  The magistrates would be striding silently through the village now, their faces stony and purposeful, their black cloaks slapping about them. Townspeople would scramble from their way, turning to watch them pass; they feared the magistrates as they feared their god, as if those cold stiff-necked men were imbued with the very powers of the Almighty Himself.

  If they but knew, he thought, of their weaknesses . . .

  Their prime weakness, the weakness that gave him so much power over them, was their gut-deep fear of him. He often thought they would do just as well without a god; they had so little faith in Him.

  The rat’s tiny fangs snapped together rapidly, gnashing the air . . .

  Outside, a breeze began to rise, sighing around the stone tower and blowing through the three small windows in the dank cell . . .

  Below, cats continued to squawl in chorus . . .

  And footsteps . . .

  They were coming up the tower, several of them, their feet scritching up the spiral stone stairs.

  He listened closely.

  There were five of them. One was the jailor; he had a clubfoot and walked with a heavy limp.

  They stopped outside the cell door and spoke in hushed voices.

  Keys jangled musically; one was slipped into the lock and turned with a heavy metallic click.

  The enormous iron door opened slowly with the tortured groan of rusted hinges. He enjoyed the sound; it was a painful, miserable sound, not unlike the sounds he’d torn from countless men and women during his long life.

  When they came inside, he stole a quick look—just enough of a glance to take them all in—then returned his eyes to the rat in the corner.

  The jailor, a small, crooked man, stood by indifferently, but the others entered with their arms raised protectively before their eyes, shielding them from his gaze.

  He heard the clatter of the scribe’s writing board being erected, heard the tip of the quill chitter tremulously against the lip of the inkwell as it was dipped into the thick black ink.

  Turning his eyes from the rat, he looked at them again, looked from one to the other.

  The scribe gasped and turned away from him.

  With a curious squeak, the rat scuttled out of the corner, released, for a moment, from the man’s pain, but—

  —he snapped his head back down and seized the rodent again. It curled into a convulsing ball with an agonized screech.

  He’d seen what he wanted to see, what he’d expected to see.

  The assemblage gathered around him was short one member.

  One very important man was missing.

  Redferne . . .

  The breeze was rapidly becoming a gusty wind blowing a salty mist in from the sea as Giles Redferne hurried across the village toward the stone tower. The hem of his patched wolfskin coat flapped around his calves and with each broad step he took, the long whip coiled at his belt slapped his hip.

  Although he did not wear the black cloaks of the Puritan magistrates, villagers scurried out of his path when they saw him coming. Most of them knew who he was and what he did, but even those who did not made way for him.

  It was his face that sent them scrambling. His clear blue eyes were bright, even in the shadow of thick brows. His long narrow face was craggy, mapped by years of hardship, darkened by the pain of loss. It was a face capable of compassion and understanding, but looked more readily capable of rage, framed by full brown hair that shifted in the wind as he walked.

  But there was something else in Redferne’s face, something more than rage or pain, something undefinable but powerful and haunting . . .

  As Redferne headed for t
he tower, he spotted the rope hanging from the gallows. It was whipping wildly, tossed by the wind which had grown even stronger in just the last few moments. He stopped and turned his eyes upward.

  Directly above him, the sky was still blue, but clouds were blowing in from every direction. They were rushing together rapidly, as if with a purpose.

  It was not a good sign.

  Redferne began walking again, faster than before, angry at himself for being late. He was sure the others were already in the tower; they might even be finished already, on their way back down.

  Redferne hoped not. He wanted to be present when the final sentence was pronounced. He wanted to be there to watch for the signs, the signs he’d seen before and knew so well.

  One of them had already begun.

  A clear blue-skied day was growing dark . . .

  The tower rose toward the graying sky in the distance, the cell window at the top staring over the village like a black, unblinking eye. Beyond that window lay Giles Redferne’s reason for living.

  Until six days ago, that reason had been his wife.

  She was a quiet, gentle woman, Marian Redferne, a woman of principles, generous to a fault, devoted to her husband and her God. They’d met in church, were married in church, and together had built a life around the church. Marian had never been well received by the rest of the congregation, though. She did not fit their mold; she was not stern and silent, unsmiling and cold like the others. Her image of God was not one of wrath and damnation; her God was loving and forgiving, but firm. She did not shun those considered to be sinful and godless; she welcomed them into her home and ministered to them not with scripture that spoke of hellfire and brimstone but with generous actions and gestures of unconditional acceptance and love.

  “As would the Son of God,” she’d often said in quiet defense of her unconventional behavior.

  That behavior was one of the reasons he’d loved her so. That and her willingness to accept his work, which could be dangerous not only to Redferne, but to her as well.

  Marian’s nonconforming attitude was the reason she had so few friends in the church; even those few had kept a safe distance. They saw little virtue in Marian’s openness.

  The church members had always kept a distance from Redferne as well, but he could easily understand that; although they appreciated what he did, his work brought him uncomfortably close to something they understood little and feared very much. But he was perplexed by their rejection of Marian.

  That rejection became complete when Marian found a woman staggering through the village late one night, half naked and bleeding. She’d been badly beaten and most of her clothes had been torn from her body. Marian took her in, dressed her wounds, fed her, and gave her a bed for the night. That would have been well and good, had the woman not been a prostitute. Marian’s act of mercy became a scandal and the church completely turned its back on her.

  Offended by the congregation’s actions, Redferne was inclined to stop attending church altogether and find God in his own way. But Marian refused.

  “We enter into God’s house to meet with the Father,” she said, “not the children.”

  So they continued going to church each Sunday. Redferne was greeted with cautious smiles and slight nods; Marian was ignored entirely, but acted no differently than she had before.

  He could tell, though, that she was hurting inside; they had hurt her deeply, and a part of him hated them for it . . .

  She had been his reason for living, the only thing in his life that kept him sane.

  He’d been with her only minutes ago. That was why he was late getting to the tower. He’d lost track of the time standing over her grave. The mound of soil atop it was still loose and cool, less than a week old.

  Now his reason for living awaited him in the cell at the top of the stone tower before him, and soon, if all went as planned, he would lose that one, too. But that was all right. He looked forward to that loss.

  He lived to see his wife’s killer die.

  Redferne lived to watch the warlock’s flesh burn finally.

  Once and for all . . .

  Above the doorway at the base of the tower, Redferne had used red paint to draw a hex mark three days ago. It was there to ward off any evil spirits the warlock might call to his aid during his final hours.

  Before going inside, Redferne took one more look at the sky. Only small patches of blue remained and they were quickly being swallowed by roiling clouds.

  He prayed that the hex mark was not failing them.

  Redferne took the stairs two at a time. Voices from above became clearer as he climbed.

  “Convened, year of our Lord—”

  Redferne quietly entered the cell and stood behind the magistrates as the proctor spoke, his words mechanical and thoughtless, spoken by rote.

  “—sixteen hundred ninety and one, Colony of Massachusetts, township of Boston . . . er, suchlike and suchlike . . .”

  The proctor, a bony man with stringy gray hair and a razor-thin nose, slowly turned toward the warlock in the center of the cell.

  “There is a minister—only one—who would come,” the proctor said, pausing for a reply.

  The warlock hung motionless and silent, a tangle of thick blond hair obscuring his face.

  Somewhere in the dark cell, a rodent squeaked and chittered miserably.

  “Confession may better your chances in the Hereafter,” he went on. “ ’Tis doubtful, yet . . . it may. By some twist of fate.”

  The warlock did not stir.

  One of the magistrates—a portly reverend named Samuel Gorman—stepped forward, cleared his throat wetly, and said, “A wealth of evidence has convicted thee of trafficking with the Devil.” He spoke slowly, deliberately, his tongue darting over his pink lips after completing each sentence. “Thou are to be hanged and then burnt atop a basket of living cats. There is no question left but one: Dost thou choose to admit thy crimes before man and God?”

  The guttural squeal coming from a dark corner of the cell stopped and was followed by the crunching sound of small bones being crushed, then—

  —silence.

  The warlock lifted his head slowly, leisurely, and his eyes peered through matted ropes of hair. They were dark eyes, deep as bottomless pits, and burned with a hateful, piercing, almost tangible contempt. His lips twitched into a ghost of a smile as his eyes moved from face to face to face—

  —settling on Redferne, boring into his skull, rummaging briefly through his thoughts like a thief in a jewel box—

  —and then they lowered again, disappeared behind the night-black hair.

  One of the magistrates—a short balding man with down-turned lips—released a disgusted breath: “Bah. ’Tis as I said. We’ll get nothing from him.”

  The proctor looked around at the others, polling them with his eyes. Each man nodded in turn except Redferne, whose eyes remained on the warlock.

  Redferne silently prayed to the Lord for the strength to resist the bitter hatred that rose in him like bile. One of the many things he’d learned from the example of Marian’s all too brief life was that hatred only begat more hatred and was the most harmful of all human emotions. But in all his life, Redferne had never felt such overwhelming hatred for any living thing as he did for the warlock at that moment; until then, he’d never realized how very right Marian had been.

  He finally nodded.

  “Then that’s the whole of it,” the proctor said quickly and with great relief, waving toward the door. “Let the record show that this obscene wretch—” he spat the words like phlegm, “—though afforded opportunity, did fail to confess his crimes.”

  The scribe noisily dismantled his writing board and the men turned to leave as the proctor went on.

  “Sentence shall be carried out in timely fashion. We stand adjourned.”

  They clogged the doorway in their rush to get out of the cell, clearing their throats and harrumphing as they started down the stairs.

  B
ut Redferne remained.

  The jailor stood in the doorway, waiting. He jangled the keys and, when he got no response, he sniffed loudly and muttered, “Sir?”

  Redferne raised a hand for the keys, plucking them from the air when the jailor tossed them just before leaving the cell.

  Outside, the wind had grown stronger; it flexed its muscles against the tower walls, howling around it angrily.

  The warlock spoke without lifting his head. “Terrified, were they not?” His voice was deep and resonant and had in it a hint of black malevolent glee.

  “Bold words for a man but hours from his death,” Redferne replied.

  The warlock raised his head and their eyes met unflinchingly.

  “Much can happen in a day,” he said.

  “Yet here have you hung for three. Would Satan not have saved you if he were thus inclined?”

  The warlock smiled. “Perhaps he’ll save us both, Redferne.”

  The hatred began to rise in Redferne again like lava in a volcano and he sucked in a steadying breath. But it did no good. A shudder passed convulsively through the length of his body and he stepped forward, lifted an arm, doubled a fist, and struck him with every ounce of strength he could muster.

  The warlock spun on the pole until he was hanging upside down by the thumblocks between his thumbs and toes, swaying back and forth like a pendulum.

  “I’ve tracked you my last,” Redferne growled. “Tomorrow you shall die, Warlock. And never was there a brute more deserving.”

  His hair hung away from his face now, hiding nothing. He gave Redferne a broad grin and said, “Believe it upon seeing it, witch hunter.”

  Redferne spun around and went to the door. “Tomorrow,” he snapped.

  The warlock quietly responded, “Tomorrow.”

  Slamming the iron door with a tremendous clang, Redferne dashed down the stairs, dizzy with anger. He stumbled on one of the steps and stopped, leaned against the curved wall, taking slow, deep breaths, trying to pray for strength but unable to concentrate because—

  —the memory of Marian’s body kept flooding his mind, vivid and bloody, as if it were lying directly before him once again.